


However Improbable...

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Detectives, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mystery, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is still a detective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: Dr. John Watson had been through many things in his life, but can anyone truly prepare for meeting the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassandpanache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassandpanache/gifts).

> A huge thank you to my beta reader sassandpanache for her incredible encouragement and love to help me finally get this story started. Comments and kudos are like food to my writing soul!!

It’d been a nasty trick, and John hates his sister for it. Yes. _Hates_ was, without question, the proper word.

For the last three decades of their lives, John has always tolerated the insanity of her personality. The drunken outbursts and hungover apologies. The sardonic edge to every comeback for_ any_ of his decisions. Going to the army? _Homosexual experimentation at university went well then?_ Becoming a doctor? _Didn't realize the God complex was hereditary._ Buying a new jumper? _For being closeted for so long, you think you'd have better fashion sense._

All choices were placed under the bloodshot scrutiny of Harry "Don't you damn well call me Harriet" Watson. Full time lush and part-time nitpicker.

If John had been able to see into the future, he would have made it a point to not answer his mobile that previous Thursday. It's not like he didn't have anything to do that evening. Work at the clinic had somehow trapped him until the darkness of the city swallowed him whole. Maybe it was exhaustion that made him answer his phone without looking at the caller ID. Besides, it wasn't like Harry to call him so close to the rounds of happy hour anyway.

“Johnny!”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index longer. The huff on the other end of the phone makes him groan in the back of his throat.

“Well, now. _That's_ the way you greet your favorite sister?”

“You're my_ only_ sister,” John retorts heavily. He barely swallows back_ the thank God for that_ which hovers just at the edge of his lips, ready to take the leap.

The short chuckle response gives John an almost hopeful feeling. At least she’s in good spirits tonight. Only a couple of drinks tucked away so far then. Good.

“We don't know that for certain, Johnny. Dad was a right slut when he was able to keep it up. Even before our dear frosty mother turned his head, I heard stories about - ”

“Please don't,” John said. His voice is muffled by the fierce pressing of his whole hand to the majority of his face. This is classic Harry. A slightly buzzed state, thriving on making her little brother cringe with such embarrassment that it should be made into an actual crime. John should write a letter to Parliament about that.

Another huff reverberates from the receiver but Harry is already onto the next topic. The soft rattle of ice in a glass and John mentally counts this as drink number three. Usually, the teasing turns toxic after five.

“Anyway,” she continues. “Called you about that speed dating email I sent last week. You never responded back. And before you even start up with you ‘not having the time’ or 'not ready to meet someone new’, you and I _both_ know that’s rubbish. Especially since you finally fessed up to me about you fancying blokes. If I had known getting you hammered would've all that was needed to get that bug out of your arse, I would have done it ages ago."

This new conversation is not any more reasonable than the one they had just left. From his father spreading the thighs of a questionable amount of young women, now the topic was verging dangerously to John stupidly admitting to wanting to lean into his more than passing enjoyment of the male form. Coming out to his lesbian sister seemed like a fairly safe idea at the time. In this situation, she _should_ have been kind and understanding. Instead, she had beamed such a triumphant smile that John had been convinced that she had just won a betting pool.

John grumbles, all the while his cheeks going way too bright pink for a man in his late thirties. “Just because I was a few pints in when told you about - “

There had been a roar of laughter, and the unmistakable sound of drink number four being poured over fresh ice. John is running out of time, but what should he do? Create a distraction and mention Clara? That would _definitely_ get Harry's mind off her next rum and Coke and on to how much of a tosser her ex-wife is. Then this will somehow end up in an hour-long tirade on how sexual toys and copious tubes of lubricant can absolutely replace any relationship.

Talk about a literal slippery slope.

Eventually, John found a way off of the phone and had been avoiding Harry's check-up calls ever since. It's not as easy to hide from texts, however, and if she and John share any familiarity traits other than their honey blonde hair, it's their stubborn streak.

So this is how Dr. John H. Watson has ended up here in a hotel conference room on the opposite side of town. The speed dating announcement banners hang in flowing dark blue and forest green with words proclaiming the joys to _Be Yourself_ and _Just Have Fun!_

John scoffs at the demands of the banners. Being himself is what always stops second dates from becoming third ones, and his body isn't built for having fun. Or so it seems. His bad leg echoes this sentiment and gives a violent throb, and he winces as he rubbed small circles into the thigh muscles with the palm of his left hand. The curvy young woman who checked him in gives a small frown and shake of her head before continuing to chat with another woman at the sign-in area. That helps John confirm that the only reason he is already sitting at one of the small tables in the center of the room is due to pity for his condition. Somewhere in the back of John’s mind, he tries not to resent the gesture but he ultimately fails.

There are more people milling around now. Smartly dressed and all shooting side glances at one another, many of them are out of John’s league in one way or another. Though the brochures and the same curvy young lady have assured that the dating pool is completely open to dating all varieties of genders and sexes, John can still feel himself being judged. Something else to definitely talk to his therapist about next week.

John's side pocket buzzes and he groans. Add on bad timing to Harry’s more annoying traits. Still, he isn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a check-in. Let her stew with her rum and Coke until after the event is over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has finally arrived! Thank you so much for your patience and comments!
> 
> Please note that some of the deducing lines comes directly from the brilliant writing from the BBC show blended in with new information specifically from this AU.

The evening is going excruciatingly slow. Even the hostess at the front has lost her sweet disposition. Her delicate bun of auburn hair is now beginning to fray at the edges as she tries to manage the crowd. At least she’s getting paid to be here. John, on the other hand, volunteered for this torture. 

What makes matters worse is that _ torture _ at this specific moment is sitting across from him in a tight black cocktail dress and wearing way too much perfume. Her name is Betty, and she has a flat in East Sussex. She also enjoys vintage red wines and apparently groping at the knees and forearms of apprehensive ex-Army doctors. Not that John in a small way was flattered, but _ desperately horny _ has never been a trait he liked to attract. 

Mercifully, the bell announces their time together is over, and the look of relief on John’s face is enough to let Betty know to move on to the next table for a better catch. While a swirl of muttered sounds of people moving around the main area fills the air, John groans as his pocket buzzes again. Honestly, at this point, texting Harry back couldn’t be any worse than what is going on in front of him. 

**John: what?**

**Harry: You answered quick! Confirms no shagging. Three Continents Watson lost his touch?**

At times like this, John wishes that he'd been an only child. Would have made for much less stress and far more access to his parents’ liquor cabinet. The thought stays in his mind as he shoves his phone back in his pocket. The faint sound of a new person sitting across from him shakes him from his reverie. He sighs as he looks up, and suddenly feels his mouth give a comical drop. 

The man is slender and pale. His thick waves of midnight curls shimmer in the artificially warm light of the ballroom. He’s wearing a sweeping dark Belstaff coat of exceptional quality, and John can see a hint of the finely tailored suit underneath. However, what caused John's mind to momentarily freeze was this man's striking and almost impossibly beautiful face. His eyes held various hues of a silver-blue rainstorm and sharpened cheekbones that reminded John of the sandstone cliffs of Bamiyan province back in Afghanistan. Dangerous, but undeniably attractive in ways that cause John need to remind himself to breathe.

“I’ll be brief,” the man says in a hushed and clipped tone, “The man at the table approximately twenty meters to your left is a target that I am trailing for a case. Need to keep my cover to observe him, so your assistance is imperative.”

John blinks at this, then frowns.

“Excuse me,” John balks back, and he glances quickly over to the plump man in thick eyeglasses to the left, and then back to the taller man. “I’m not trying to get involved in - “

“Of course you want to get involved,” the taller man interrupts. His voice slightly more irritated than before. “It’s clear from your previous encounter with that insufferable woman that you’re not interested in some quick copulation, or females in general at the present time.”

The tall man’s pauses and the unnatural eyes trail over John again, as if x-raying him. 

“Besides," he continues. "You're also incredibly bored and assisting me will be a pleasant distraction, John.” 

There's something in the way that he says John's name that sends what feels like an electric jolt through John's spine. The elongated vowels and elegant tone that has John very relieved that he is seated. Even with two good legs, he might have fallen over otherwise. But then the cautious soldier inside his head gives the rest of John a needed reality check. 

"How in the hell do you know my name?"

The other man gave a loud sniff at the question, with an air of impatience that’s frankly impressive given the circumstances of his demands. 

"The same way that I am fairly certain that you're a doctor, and recently come out as bisexual to a family member. Most likely they're the alcoholic who gifted you that phone in your left pocket along with allowing you to stay in their spare bedroom after you returned from military deployment in Iraq."

John gapes at the taller man, who returns the look with a small smirk of triumph. 

"Or Afghanistan…" the man finishes. "It's my profession to deduce. I'm a consulting detective working for Scotland Yard."

There is a second or two while John tries and fails to jump-start his brain. He's certain that he must resemble a trout with the opened mouth and blank stare. 

"That's bloody brilliant," John whispers, and the other man raises his eyebrows in surprise. "How did you...I mean, can you explain?"

It's the taller man's turn to impersonate a fish, although in his clothing and with his striking features the effect came off much more adorably befuddled than outright dumbstruck. John enjoys the fussing the man does to affix his expression back to one of calm aloofness.

"When you arrived the hostess took more time than others with finding your name on the registry, although she went to the initial section very quickly," the other man explains. "So I theorized that your name was easily spelled and pronounced, but so commonplace that she had to search to find both your first name _and _last. Since I already had seen the full list previously to ensure that Mr. Barrows was going to be at this event, I surmised that the only popular names that fit all of the criteria would be either David or John. The five Davids in attendance were able to be found with reasonable assurance, so the process of elimination made your first name being John."

At this point John is leaning heavily on the table as he listens. Fascinated isn't a good enough word. As if taking John's silence as an affirmation to continue, the other man does. 

"Your hands are expertly clean, which could excusably be for many reasons, but I also noticed that you also make a point of thoroughly cleaning your wrists and forearms, which is more the habit of someone in the medical field. Your age and mannerisms indicate a doctor as opposed to a nurse. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself shows military training. A theory further confirmed because you subconsciously scanned this very crowd for possible threats and escape routes if the need arises to assist others. Based on your face being tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. You clearly have a therapist. The limp you have is really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq. Both places are more associated with the army, so you were an Army doctor."

There’s an abrupt shot of pain that runs through John’s left leg, but he chooses to ignore it. For the first time in a very long time there is something much more intriguing to focus on. 

“You said I had a therapist?”

What could pass as a light chuckle leaves the soft lips and a flash of a true smile graces the angular face. Then just as quickly as it appeared, the grin disappears. 

“You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your phone. Your phone is expensive. It's the newest model, yet your clothes are as practical and well-worn as the wallet you carry, so the phone was a gift. The scratches also provides more proof that the phone was not originally yours. There are many scratches over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat the one luxury item you possess like this, so it's had a previous owner."

John hums in understanding as he pulls out the phone again. The new text alerts glow unread as he places it face down on the table. 

"Clearly it's a family member who's given you his old phone." He continues. "Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. So a brother or sister. At first I thought a brother, but doubtful that a male would be texting you non-stop since you've arrived. Women have a tendency to be more outwardly communicative in situations connected with dating, so a sister. Based on the facial scowls you were making when reading her texts, but true restraint shown in your own responses back it stands to hypothesize you are trying to remain cordial. Wouldn't be needed unless you were living in her home at the moment and trying to keep direct discourse to a minimum. Lastly, the small patches of tabby orange cat hair on only your right jean pant leg confirmed this. If the cat was yours there'd be fur in more places. Cats have a tendency to spend a large amount of time with their owners, while only wanting to casually interact with others."

John chuckles again as he recalls how Harry's cat Ginger was absolutely still warming up to him at the flat. The taller man's eyebrows lift at the laugh, but John gives a quick shake of the head and waves his left hand in the classic _ please continue _ gesture. 

"And the fact that she drinks?"

The other man's smirk is back, and points a slender index finger at John's phone on the table.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. The power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. When the phone was still with her every night she would go to plug it in and charge, but her hands were shaky. You never see those marks on a sober person's phone, never see a drunk's without them. Phone most likely given to you partially to help your sister forget the old flame who gave it to her in the first place."

John's chin is resting on his palm now. Any annoyance at the evening now ebbed away by this stunningly genius of a man who figured out every bit of his life without even needing to say one actual word to him before now. 

"You know practically everything about me," John says, slightly taken aback by the hushed tones of his own voice as me places the phone back in his pocket. "And yet I know nothing about you."

The taller man clears his throat and John can see a slight flush in the cheekbones as he gets up in a flourish of long coat and raven-black curls. 

"I didn't know. I saw. The same way I saw your overall confidence change depending on gender. When a woman you found attractive noticed you, your eye contact and smile would be much warmer and direct. However, with any man you'd only glance at when you seemed sure they were not actively paying attention back. So it's clear that you're much more used to romancing women, so bisexual, but only _ recently _ exploring that side of yourself."

John reels at this most recent wave of information, and wonders to himself how very transparent he must seem to this man. There is a part of him that doesn't want that. To have some mystery to solve and to not be such an apparent open book. 

However before John can come up with something clever or interesting to say, the taller man grumbled under his breath and stands up in a flourish of long coat and inky black curls. 

John stands up as well, feeling instantly wrongfooted. 

"What? You're going?" John asks.

"Of course I'm going, John. As I stated before I am following a person of interest for a case for the Yard, and if you had taken a moment to notice more than my physical attractiveness, you'd have observed Mr. Blowers has exchanged phone numbers with the man sitting at his table. They will be leaving together in my estimation, ten to fifteen minutes and heading to Mr. Blowers' home."

John can actually feel disappointment sink into the pit of his stomach. It's a deep, dark and heavy sensation, but he tries to be stoic as he lifts up his hand for a handshake goodnight.

"It's a pity you're needing to leave then," John begins as the other man shifts his dazzling eyes from John's outstretched hand to his face. "But I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you."

The other man takes John's hand in his and there is a ripple of heat from the contact of their palms. Then with a slight tug, John is pulled with the taller man as he leads them away from the rows of tables and chairs and towards the exit. John splutters in surprise but he is actively not being listened to as the taller man grasps his hand even tighter as they move. It's only when they have made their way past the main lobby and out the front door that the other man turns to look at him again."

"Where the hell are we going?"

The other man's eye roll almost looks painful. 

"Don't be stupid, John. Obviously you're coming with me. Your time as a soldier and your medical training will be invaluable on this case."

John's hand is finally let go as he stands perfectly still in shock. How dare this man think that he's one to just go out and chase after some random person with what is essentially a perfect stranger? The internal warning bells are so loud that John's getting an actual headache. Yet still something stronger and more visceral is crawling right under the surface of John's skin. The tingle of adventure and the absolute unknown fires off in what feels like every atom of his body. He barely holds back the shudder it causes. 

Unfortunately, John is in the company of a man who is all about observation.

"You’ll be excellent, John. I can promise you good conversation and very little boredom. If we do end up needing to chase a subject on foot, since my strides are longer, it'll put you in a spectacular position to view my arse. I've been told by many that it's _ very _ appealing."

This last line triggers something in John's throat. It takes a few moments that John realizes that it's a fit of giggles. The other man soon joins in. 

"You are positively mental," John says out as soon as he can stop laughing long enough. "And so am I for agreeing to this, but I am. I don't even know your name."

The other man smiles once more, and this time he keeps it there. John revels in its blinding beauty and intensity. Bright and shimmering as if John is witnessing a star being created in the darkened sky. 

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. Now let's go. The game is on!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to CadersSparklet to helping me unstick my brain in this chapter. 
> 
> I hope that you are enjoying the story. Kudos and comments always encourage me! <3

John Watson has always considered himself to be a rational person. It's part of the very reason he survived being shot in Afghanistan. When the bullet had attempted to destroy him from the inside out. With a backdrop of sand and blistering sun, his mind automatically went into doctor mode. Focusing on the level of blood pouring from his left shoulder instead of the unnatural existence of so much of it. 

Being rational is what helped keep him going. Being rational is what helped keep him safe. John knows this. However, he _ also _ knows that a rational person doesn't allow handsome and brilliant strangers to literally drag them out of speed dating events. Yet here he is. Bad leg oddly _ not _ in agony as he runs on heels of Sherlock Holmes. The blurs of darkened back alleyways akin to an urban battlefield. The Belstaff coat whipping around Sherlock’s lean body like a matador's cape, and indeed it is a _ marvelous _ arse.

Perhaps this is some elaborate joke that someone is playing on him. The premise is certainly one built for prime time reality television. Plain looking bloke trapped in a speed dating nightmare to be approached by a fashion model. Target to be chatted up and charmed until both sets of their clothing end up on the cutting room floor. Commercial breaks at the six, eleven and twenty-two-minute marks. 

Sherlock's quick turn to the right is just enough of an abrupt change to get John back into the present. Keep his eyes as steady as his nerves. Be prepared for anything, and for fuck’s sake wear proper running shoes next time. 

If there is a next time anyway.

The alley opens up to an unexpectedly suburban street filled with tiny houses. The hedgerows almost begrudging in their trimmed and boxy forms. Sherlock has slowed down his movements to more of a casual gait, with John finally able to catch up to properly wheeze and grab at the aching stitch at his side. The physician's part of his brain is screaming at him to check his pulse and be careful of his dodgy leg. These are again, rational suggestions. His ignoring both of those suggestions to instead focus on how tight Sherlock’s trousers actually are is another issue entirely. 

“John? Are you all right? You’re looking decidedly more chartreuse than a few minutes ago.”

“Never better,” John pants back. “Just give me a moment to - “

He pauses and stands up to look into Sherlock’s quizzical gaze. 

“Did you just use a word like _ chartreuse _ to describe me trying to not vomit all over the sidewalks of Holland Park?”

Sherlock blinks back at John’s question as if he doesn’t even know how to begin to answer it. John can almost hear the gears working in Sherlock’s brain. Perhaps the thick and wild curls are muffling the sound of them. John inhales a few sharp breaths in through his nose and then slowly exhales through his mouth. The feeling of sickness starts to ebb away fairly quickly, even with John feeling Sherlock watching him in such a curious way.

“Army training,” John explains as he raises his arms and then locks his fingers behind his neck, “Opens up the lungs for better oxygen saturation. If I plan to die out here I’d prefer to not be any color than my natural hue if you don’t mind.”

Something very close to a snort escapes from Sherlock’s nose, and John chuckles as well. 

“I’d just appreciate a clue as to where in the hell we’re actually off to?” John continues.

This seems to be an easier inquiry for the detective, and Sherlock at once points his long slender index finger to the next street up from where they are. There isn’t anything particularly interesting there. More houses and the occasional car driving past on their way to or from home. 

“Blowers’ house is the larger one to the left. Crimson...I mean, _ red_. Red with white trim around the windows. The date is more than likely going to only be there for at most twenty minutes. Then if my deductions are accurate, which they are, a taxi will be called to take the much younger man home. That’s when we make our move to catch our murderer.”

John frowns at this. There are way more assumptions that Sherlock is throwing out into the wind then John usually feels okay with pursuing, even when the man tossing them is clearly brilliant. Also, the fact that this supposed person is a murderer isn’t helping John feel much better. 

“What makes you think that either Blowers or this fellow he’s bedding is out about killing people?”

Sherlock snorts again, but this time there is that ever-growing familiarity of impatience in his tone. 

“We’re not going after _them_. It’s the taxi driver who’s involved in that rash of supposed suicidal deaths all over the news.”

John allows his arms to fall back to his sides at this new piece of information. All in the space of a minute or two this has gone from a fun little foot race to tail a pudgy little man and his one night stand to be part of a very active murder investigation. 

“Are you telling me that we are out here to confront a serial killer?”

“Confront _ and _ capture, John. Do keep up.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are getting into the thick of things. Sorry about the delay. I have a tendency to be such a worrier with my writing, but here is the next chapter. Thank you for reading, and as always comments and kudos are chicken soup for my writing soul!

Somewhere in an emptying hotel ballroom, there are a lot of quizzical glances. Apparently a cane is missing an owner. It leans off to the side of table number three. Military-grade. Warranted for recovery. Slightly shortened. Sturdy and dependable. The same descriptors could have doubled for its wayward soldier. 

Unfortunately, the ex-army doctor issued this cane is approximately four and a half blocks away. At the moment he has a look of what would be penciled in as  _ absolute incredulity _ if his therapist were there to take notes. The taller man is a few feet apart monitoring his movements. As if calculating the best tackling techniques if John's fight or flight response takes hold. However, John does neither. Instead, he straightens his stance and furrows his brow. The deep lines create creases and work facial muscles that haven't been exercised since medical school. Then he slowly looks towards the red house, and then back to Sherlock.

"All right," John says finally. "What's the plan?"

John can nearly feel the tension crackle the air between them. The staleness of the night now buzzing with anticipated electricity. The slight relaxation of Sherlock’s shoulders is a mirror to John’s unwinding gut. 

“The cab driver, like all people, prefers familiar surroundings,” Sherlock explains, “The latest death was only a few miles away. Similar area and similar time of night from my calculations and how the preceding evidence is laid out. We stand here and wait for the driver to arrive, and then follow to the next destination.”

John can’t help but groan. This isn’t a plan at all. This is more like a series of assumptions and hutches that will end with the hospital or the grave. Neither one holds much appeal. 

“Are you  _ mad _ ?” John hisses. 

The query feels almost rhetorical. 

“If based on your previous assertions, John...we  _ both _ are.”

Then with a twist of fine tailoring on sharp lines and angles, the coat swirls as Sherlock turns on his heel to start a brisk walk up closer to the red house. John mutters a couple of curses and trots to keep up. 

Blowers’ home is dark except for a soft yellowish light coming from one of the top windows. More than likely this is the bedroom where the two men are enjoying each other in every conceivable way. John shifts from side to side as he tries and fails to keep his adrenaline from kicking into overdrive. Ten minutes have passed. And then another ten more. 

Eventually the bedroom light flickers off and the telltale sound of muffled shouts. John is far too familiar with these types of noises. Accusations and assertions that will  _ not  _ turn a night of fun into breakfast in bed. Sure enough, what is clearly a smaller man's shape pulling back on a shirt and buckling up a belt can just be seen from where both he and Sherlock are hunkered down. 

John jumps as he hears Sherlock whisper from behind him. The detective has his mobile phone pressed to his ear as he speaks instructions into the phone. 

"Send a car to the corner of Harrison Street and Downey Blvd. Unmarked. I'll text when everything's been confirmed."

The phone is hung up quickly and pocketed. Then silence once more as they wait. The night air is chilly enough for John to wish he had remembered to wear more than just a light coat over his jumper. Sherlock, on the other hand, looks perfectly at ease in the slight wind. The curls catching the breeze and John’s eye as well. Occasionally Sherlock checks his phone for the time.

A dark colored car pulls up behind them with a slender man nods at them both.

“About time,” Sherlock huffs as he opens the rear passenger door and hops inside. John slides in after them and the driver turns off the lights. 

There is thankfully no need for John to force out small talk. Only a small distance from where they are a white car turns from the side street and up in front of the house and beeps its horn three times. Then the front door opens and the same shape of a man that John had seen dressing heads towards the other car and gets inside. 

“Just keep them within our sights,” Sherlock instructs. The driver nods again, and they’re off. 

At this point there’s no stopping the rush of energy going through John’s body. The thrill of the chase destroying any other concerns that he should be having right now. Eyes and ears sharp for everything around them. It aches with how much he has missed this. The sensation of danger and mystery. It’s making his heart and mind both feel opened and whole for the first time since he had to breathe in the mundane world. 

The taxi is moving at a casual speed. Nothing indicating that he is aware that he’s being followed at all. Sherlock continues to check his phone and send what John assumes is text messages. Maybe from the Yard, but he thinks it’s best to not ask. 

The white car finally pulls up to what looks like a small factory on the north side of town and then makes an abrupt stop. John gasps as the driver of the taxi open and closes his own door, and then looks both ways before walking over to the back seat and opens the passenger side. The young man from Blowers’ house falls out of the car. His face was slack and pale as the streetlight hits his stilled form. 

“Shit!” John yells.

“I knew it!” Sherlock shouts, and then in a flash, he leaps out of the back of the unmarked car and heads running towards the taxi driver, who looks back at him in shock. 

Then a series of events happen that later on John will only partially recall. The taxi driver yanks at something from his side pocket that John is 90% certain is a gun. A black revolver. Pointed directly at Sherlock. Then the feeling of hard sidewalk underneath John’s right foot, and then left as he planted his stance and pulls out a military issued Glock 17, three bullets in the magazine. Only two were needed tonight. 

The taxi driver is effectively dead before he hits the ground. Granted, it may be possible to survive a wound to the chest, but quite another when you have a brand new hole right between your eyes. The expression on the man’s face one of polite surprise of his night going decidedly sideways. The same cannot be said of Sherlock. His silver-blue eyes are even more mesmerizing when opened wide as John’s brain catches up with his reflexes. The gun still smelling of powder rests steadily in his right hand.

“Backup is on the way,” the undercover officer says. He already has his gun out as he advances from the unmarked car to the two men now on the ground. “You both stay here, and you…” He pauses, looking at John. “Wicked of a shot there.”

“Cheers,” John replies, though his voice is shakier than normal. He hadn’t even remembered bringing his gun out with him tonight. Muscle memory that somehow guided him to carry a weapon that he shouldn’t even have, let alone take with him to a crowded hotel ballroom. 

“Angelo’s?” Sherlock asks although the question is absolutely a statement in disguise. “My treat.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small chapter before we start more of the story properly. Thank you for your comments and kudos as always!

There's a fascinating process that can happen when one blends a splash of murder in with the evening. A generally healthy body reacts to being placed in danger and takes actions to protect, and then enact revenge on the human on which it is attached. This systematic self-sabotage can come in many forms including the following:

Shaking limbs. Blurred vision. Muscle weakness. 

John Watson is dealing with all of these, and it is in a very real sense a bit not good. Medically he is aware of what is happening. Emotionally speaking, he craves a blanket, a hug and a really strong shot of brandy. In that order, if at all possible. 

“John?”

Sherlock is approaching him. The new haziness of the world makes the detective appear to be floating. John giggles. Actually _giggles _at the oddity of it. Add slight delirium to the list of symptoms then. _ A bit not good _has now graduated to _a lot not good_. 

“Give me your coat,” John slurs as he squints up. 

“I highly doubt that it would fit your - “

“I’m going into shock, you idiot,” John retorts and makes grabby hands at Sherlock’s upper torso. Then he moans at the warm and soft sensation of lusciously posh material under his fingertips. Actually _moans _like he’s in a low-level porno. A _ lot not good _has now become blackmail material for the proper clientele. Fortunately, Harry is on the other side of London.

The effort of staying upright is too much, and John’s knees buckle. It seems as though Sherlock is a lot stronger than he looks, and he wraps over long arms around John in an exact reenactment of those old Harlequin novels. John feels instantly warmer. In all areas. _ All areas_. 

“My God, you smell good,” John sighs. Then he presses his nose into the side of the long pale column of neck and inhales deeply, like some sort of present-day succubus. Dignity has now officially left the crime scene. Perhaps it went to fetch John’s cane. 

How very nice of it. 

Somewhere in John’s brain which is not breathing in 1.83 meters of consulting detective, there is a need to get into a recovery position. It involves laying down folding your knees upwards until you begin to feel like you’re not going to die. At least not die of embarrassment usually associated with being spread eagle on the ground surrounded by police tape and half of Scotland Yard. Then again, passing out right after killing a murder suspect also isn’t the best idea. 

Sherlock grunts as he stands back up. His long coat now draped over John like a sleeved shock blanket. John is also grunting as he begins to bend himself into a pretzel. A random curse flutters out from his mouth along with steady breaths.

It’s the stomping of what are clearly angry footfalls that lurch John back into sentry mode. A man with salt and pepper hair is making a beeline towards the two of them. However, the accusing hand and an exasperated expression are directly aimed at Sherlock.

“What the hell,” the man says completely not noticing John curled up on the sidewalk. “What is the sans _hell _do you think you’re playing at, Sherlock? Are you _trying _to start an entire panic through London? No call for backup. _ Complete _disregard for basic protocol. Just strut up to the lead person of interest in a bloody _murder investigation_ and do what exactly? Deduce him to a straight-out confession by telling him that his mother was a diabetic because of the way he combed his hair or some other such bollocks? You could have gotten yourself killed, not to mention all of the - “

The man pauses just long enough to realize John exhaling at their feet. 

“Who in the world is this?” he asks.

“John,” Sherlock grumbles. “And do stop yelling Lestrade, before he shoots you in the head as well."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter has entered the ring! Thank you all for so many lovely comments and kudos. They are my bread in butter! <3

Breathing is important. It's literally a function of life and death. John knows this, which is the primary reason why he allows a stranger to bend down to ground level without punching him. In the face. With his good arm. The dark brown eyes peering at him radiate the warmth and resigned understanding one needs to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

"John? That's your name is it? You okay, mate?"

Three questions to start off with then. John groans and sways and the man catches him before he keels over. Breathing still seems to be part of some longer negotiation process than John has foreseen. 

"Yes...John. John Watson. And other than my lungs evaporating and just killing a man, I'm having the fucking time of my life, thanks."

The other man snorts a laugh and then glances back to Sherlock. "He's just the type that I'd expect you to fancy, Sherlock. This the bloke you texted me about while you were trying to be all brilliant and race to the target without proper backup?”

Up until that point in his life, John didn’t think that a person could actually bristle in indignation. However, apparently the world’s only consulting detective can do this. The bundle of loose curls shakes as Sherlock sniffs at the other man, and then pointedly looks at his gorgeous silver-blue eyes back towards John.

“John, this is Detective Inspector Grant Lestrade. He’s usually not as meandering as the others in the Yard, but he has his moments. Like right now, for example.”

Lestrade’s smug smile melts away into a much grumpier frown. It appears was too comfortable on his face for this to not be a normal expression.

“I’m going to pretend that you’re in shock and therefore didn’t mean what you just said And it’s  _ Greg _ , Sherlock. You bloody should know my name by - “

“Additional data like that is cumbersome in my mind palace, Lestrade. Now do stop crowding around John with equally wasteful carbon dioxide. We have a dinner engagement.”

Now it’s John’s turn to frown. He can actually feel his muscles working as he tries to connect the dots of what in the world is happening to his life. At least the haze of his mind is clearing, and vaguely he can hear Lestrade yelling at Sherlock. The two men are toe to toe, with Sherlock’s arms crossed in front of him as the DI continues to shout about proper procedures. It’s only when a remark on them needing to stay to fill out paperwork that John feels a large hand grab at his right arm and pull him up onto his feet. 

“Oy,” Lestrade says, clearly startled. “You just can’t leave without - “

“It’s obvious that _John_ is the one in shock and needing of a proper meal,” Sherlock interrupts, his hand moving from John’s arm to the middle of his back to help push him along. “So unless you want him to break down completely I highly advise reaching out tomorrow to the two of us.”

And with that, John is jostled into a waiting cab. The driver nods to Sherlock’s instruction to head to Angelo’s. John shifts his gaze to the back window to see Greg Lestrade staring at the car as the zooms away. His face a mixture of barely contained irritation, and once more John senses that he and Greg are kindred spirits in ways that only can be further explored over future pints at the local bar. He’ll make a point to ask for Lestrade’s contact information once this incredibly long night is finally over. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are finally back with a short chapter, but I have not abandoned this story, I promise! Kudos and comments are always welcomed in so many ways. Be safe out there, everyone!

There are very few things in life that rattle John Watson. A child being hurt in an ongoing nightmare. Noises that are out of place. And now - apparently - killing a shadowy man with his very illegal firearm. Sherlock keeps his astonishing eyes steady in his direction. A mix of emotions that John is honestly too distracted to be able to begin to unpack. John misses his cane and wants a _ really  _ strong drink. 

“Angelo’s has one of the best wine collections in all of London,” Sherlock says, matter of factly. John has stopped trying to figure out how a man he has known for less than three hours is able to read his mind. Instead, he focuses on the detective’s elegant thumbs scrolling up on the smartphone. The way that the ghostly blue light of the screen illuminates the detective’s already strong angled features and cerulean eyes. It does things to John’s insides that he is very sure would have Harry giggling like mad. He can hear her voice now, all teasing and sing-song about how  _ Johnny got the hots for Mr. Tall, Dark and Emotionally Distant _ . 

Throw that on top of the fact that John practically swooned after all of the danger had passed and his sister might become the ninth person in history to be officially killed off by laughing too much. Her gravestone with the three words  _ Totally Worth It! _ under her name. 

He scrubs his hands over his face in some vain attempt to focus. A callback from times at war when there was a need to recenter his senses before making a rash decision. Like doing a tuck and roll out of a moving taxi and pretending like tonight never happened. Better yet, just forget about the entire month just to be on the safe side. 

John can feel Sherlock deducting his every move. It’s like being studied like some sort of interesting specimen in a test tube or under the lens of a microscope. Each twitch of his muscles recorded and tallied for future consideration and why the  _ fuck _ does he still smell like Sherlock’s aftershave? It’s too soon to be this enamored. 

“How are you feeling, John?”

How rude of him to ask John a perfectly valid question. Especially when John is in the middle of some sort of secondary nervous breakdown. This one complete with the knowledge that he absolutely  _ will  _ wank in the shower later tonight with the name Sherlock on his lips when he comes. The detective probably has extrapolated this information as well from something as mundane as the way his right leg is bouncing up and down, or how his mouth is so dry that he keeps needing to lick his lips. 

“Better, thanks. Leaving the scene was a good idea.”

Christ, he almost sounds normal. Chalk that up to either his medical or military background. Perhaps a bit of both? Something else to discuss with Ella if he somehow makes it to their next appointment. Her dark eyes narrowing as he explains very calmly that his first truly intense homoerotic pursuit almost got him murdered and then took him out for pasta. 

John sighs and straightens up in his seat, and plans on ordering the most expensive food and wine on the menu tonight. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for staying with the story!!

The ambiance of Angelo’s is dangerous, and that’s not just because John has seen at least three illegal transactions go down in the span of ordering their appetizers. If anything, that makes the restaurant even more thrilling, and by god John needs to figure out how to stop this need for mainlining perilous situations. Harry is convinced that he’s addicted to thrills, which coming from a seasoned alcoholic is somewhat hilarious. 

Granted, that doesn’t stop her from being _ mostly _right.

“None of the activity in here is worth getting shot over,” Sherlock calmly mentions. His breathtaking eyes on the menu for only another moment before shifting back up to John’s face. “Unless that’s a kink you’d like to chat about once our wine is refreshed.”

Can a man faint from blushing? John should know this being a doctor. Yet somehow he begs that the candlelight won’t highlight features to give away even _more _of his fantasies as to what he would love to be doing after dessert tonight. Most of them involve a specific taller man wearing absolutely nothing but that same smirk.

John needs to stop this train of thought before the inevitable erection, but this form of romance really hasn’t been ‘his area’ until now. In heterosexual situations, John has become an expert at the clues. The small giggles and subtle touches of hair being pushed behind the ear to alert that the other person was definitely interested. Sherlock isn’t as open of a book. He’s as layered as his clothing, and probably just as deceptively soft as them too. 

Angelo himself is way too generous with both the portions of food and his smug innuendos. He winks at the two of them so many times that John wonders if the owner of the restaurant spends his off time as Sherlock’s personal matchmaker. John could easily see Harry at some point in the future sitting down at one of the plusher booths in the back with Angelo. Comparing notes and strategies about best to get both of their targets in nuptials by the end of next summer. 

As if she knows that John is thinking about how she can best humiliate him, there is another text alert. The buzz somehow louder than all of the other noises. Sherlock lifts a curious eyebrow, but the rest of him stays eerily still.

“Sorry…” John says as he pulls out his phone. He makes a point of actually looking apologetic because he truly is, and that always helps. “My sister… she’s just - “

Sherlock doesn’t give John a chance to fumble out an excuse. Fair enough since it would have been a shit one anyway. Instead, he grabs John’s phone and glances down at the screen. His face is impassive as he must be reading the latest sarcastic barbs of Harriett Watson, and then sending back a reply. 

John in the meantime is plotting the murder of his sister. He won’t go through with it, because deep down he knows that she means well enough. Sort of like an overly enthusiastic mother bird giving her sexually frustrated chick a needed push out of the nest, and hopefully not crash to the ground of resentful celibacy. 

“Your sister seems very involved in your love life,” Sherlock says, his eyes still on John’s phone screen. “Is she under the impression that the newly initiated into the LGBTQ+ community receive bonus travel miles?”

It takes John a few moments before he starts to giggle madly at this because if such a program existed he could also imagine Harry whipping out a rainbow card from her purse and slapping it on the counter of some poor customer service agent. Her voice going shrill as she complained that she had planned on using those bonus miles for a holiday in Hawaii with some much younger lady during her latest pub crawl. 

Another text alert and this one has Sherlock give a deep chuckle that John could live the rest of his days listening too and yes, he needs to stop with all the wine before he says something he’ll regret on a first date. 

“Sorry that’s she’s being so impossibly - “

John doesn’t get a chance to finish insulting his sister, because Sherlock is lifting his phone in what is undoubtedly a selfie. His cheekbones and riveting eyes light up in the sudden flash, and then John has his phone back. 

“Did you...just send her a photo of yourself?”

“I did,” Sherlock coolly replies as he picks up his wine glass once more. “Didn’t believe that her little brother would be capable of… in her words “hooking a fish” on the first go, so...I showed her that he most _definitely_ did. Should shut her up until at least dessert. But that aside, John… tell me more about your days as Three Continents Watson. I’m _ positively _ intrigued.”


End file.
